


A Firm Hand Between The Shoulder Blades, or, How Sherlock’s Impatience Finally Worked In Greg and Mycroft’s Favour

by OneBlueUmbrella (bigblueboxat221b)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blind Date, M/M, POV Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27471007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/OneBlueUmbrella
Summary: I think the title sums it up, really.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 9
Kudos: 169
Collections: Mark Gatiss birthday collection 2020





	A Firm Hand Between The Shoulder Blades, or, How Sherlock’s Impatience Finally Worked In Greg and Mycroft’s Favour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trillian_jdc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trillian_jdc/gifts).



The last thing Greg needed was a call from Sherlock, but you didn’t get to pick and choose with this particular consulting detective. If he called while you were on the tube home and bluntly said he had something important about a case you’d been working on for weeks, you might swear and grumble, but you still got off at the next stop and headed for Baker Street.

Greg spent the walk from the tube station to Baker Street trying to shed his bad mood. It would be easier if it wasn’t raining, easier if he didn’t desperately want a cigarette, easier if he wasn’t so hungry. But he couldn’t change any of those things until he was done with Sherlock and that in itself was going to have to be enough motivation. The more patient he was with Sherlock, the faster he would be out of there. With any luck his nicotine patch would be enough. Christ, and he hoped John would be there. Sherlock was always calmer when John was around. That was a dynamic Greg always wondered about, but he and John weren’t quite at the point where he could ask. Maybe by the end of the football season, when they’d spent a few more long nights together at the pub.

When he arrived at 221, Greg stopped, took a deep breath and reminded himself why he needed to be patient, no matter how infuriating Sherlock was.

_Nicotine, food, sleep._

“This better be worth it,” Greg muttered, knocking on the door. He greeted the landlord whose name he always forgot before making his way up the stairs.

“Sherlock,” he nodded, not at all surprised when he barely looked up. “Alright, John?”

“Alright,” he replied, walking over to shake Greg’s hand. “How’s things?”

“Not bad,” Greg said, looking over at Sherlock. His stomach growled and he shot a glance at John. “How long’s he gonna be like that, do you reckon?”

“No idea,” John said with an amused expression. “Did you need him for something?”

Greg frowned. “He asked me to come here. Something about the Hampshire case?”

John blinked at him for a second. “He’s literally not moved for the last five hours. I’ve been here writing,” he pointed to his chair, “and apart from a couple of trips to the loo and to make a sandwich, I haven’t gone anywhere.”

Greg pulled out his phone, wordlessly showing John the request from Sherlock. John sighed and turned to Sherlock.

“Want to explain this?” he asked.

Sherlock’s eyes at least flicked up to John, but he didn’t immediately respond.

“Right, I’m off,” Greg said. His patience had been collected to deal with manic, flighty Sherlock, not with being ignored.

“Gavin,” Sherlock said without moving.

Greg looked at John, who managed to appear sympathetic to him and exasperated with Sherlock at the same time. As John turned to deal with Sherlock, Greg turned for the door. He’d halfway decided to buy cigarettes and deal with the regret tomorrow when Sherlock spoke again.

“Greg,” he said, and if it had been anything but his actual name, Greg would have ignored it.

Instead he turned, giving Sherlock three seconds before he walked out again.

“I have a favour to ask,” Sherlock said.

“You…what?” Greg asked.

“A favour,” Sherlock repeated himself. He unfolded himself, appearing completely comfortable without stretching. He offered Greg a piece of paper. “Angelo has some information for you. I was unable to collect it today.”

Greg blinked, taking the paper automatically. “That’s why you wanted me to come here?” he asked cautiously.

Sherlock nodded. “That is all,” he said, and in typical Sherlock fashion swept himself out of the room and into his bedroom.

Greg couldn’t find a single word, but his eyes found John’s.

“I know,” John told him, eyes full of apology. “I have no idea what’s going on. I’ll make sure he doesn’t contact you again for a few days.”

“A week,” Greg bit out. “At least.” Nodding curtly at John he stalked down the stairs, using what felt like a huge proportion of his self-control not to slam the door. The rain was steady enough to be annoying so he ducked under the cover outside the sandwich shop. He shoved his hand in his pocket, the paper crinkling as he curled his fingers into a fist. His personal irritation at Sherlock warred with the professional instinct to follow this lead regardless of the twat that might have sent it his way.

“Bugger,” Greg muttered. He wasn’t going to let any part of this keep him awake tonight. A quick stop at Angelo’s would assuage his professional conscience, and resolutely not buying cigarettes would prevent him cursing his lack of resolve.

Decision made, Greg splurged on a cab, wanting to just get to Angelo’s and get home. In fact he could grab something to take home for tea; the idea cheered him no end. God knew he had zero actual food in his kitchen. He grabbed this particular positive energy and tried to channel it, breaking up the irritation so it would crumble away without tainting the rest of his evening. It worked fairly well, his reticent cabbie allowing the quiet few minutes he needed to get his head together.

He paid with a decent tip, stepping out into the miraculously dry air and avoiding a puddle. The small pieces of what felt like luck almost made him smile. He wasn’t a huge believer in luck, necessarily, but right now he’d take what he could get. The almost smile was still tugging at his mouth as he ducked into Angelo’s…and stopped dead.

It was empty.

Well, almost empty.

Angelo stood behind the counter, grinning widely. “Good evening!” he said cheerily, opening his arms to Greg. “Please, come and have a seat.”

Greg looked at him suspiciously, making no move to shed his coat. “Sherlock said you had some information for me.”

“Not information exactly,” Angelo said comfortably. “This is what he has for you.”

“An empty restaurant?” Greg asked.

“Not quite,” Angelo replied. He glanced at his watch. “If you’ll take a seat, Sherlock has left you a video to explain.”

Greg sighed, but refused to let himself get pulled down again by the childish games. “Look I was going to see if I could get a takeaway too,” he said. “Any chance of something? I’m not picky.”

“Of course,” Angelo said, his smile breaking even wider. He passed over a tablet. “Please, watch the video while I speak to the kitchen.”

Greg accepted the tablet, still fighting his own reaction, and took a seat at the tiny booth near the back. The video was ready to go so he pressed play and leaned in.

“If you’re watching this you’ve made a good choice,” Sherlock said. “Namely doing as I’ve asked.” The smug expression was a pain in the arse and Greg gritted his teeth. _Get on with it, Sherlock._ “I have limited time to record this, so I’ll cut to the chase. I can no longer sit by and watch you two moon over each other like lovesick puppies. Consider this destiny, fate, or whatever ridiculous falsehood you believe in. But for God’s sake, sit there and figure this out. I can’t concentrate on the work with such a distraction.”

The screen went black, and Greg blinked, the image of Sherlock still on his retina for a second before it faded.

What. The Actual. Fuck?

He was still sitting, blinking at the screen when Angelo came over, glass of wine in one hand, a tiny votive candle in the other. The grin again, Greg thought, now interpreting it differently.

“Sherlock set me up on a date?” Greg managed.

“Yes,” Angelo said happily. “Dinner is coming, and your date…here he is!”

Greg froze, staring at the door as the bell jingled, alerting them that someone was entering.

Mycroft.

He watched Mycroft stop, as he had, eyes taking in the empty space and falling on the host, moving toward him with the same arms-wide-open gesture he’d offered Greg.

“Good evening,” Angelo said with a broad grin.

“Good evening,” Mycroft replied cautiously. “Might I ask if Sherlock is here?”

Greg took pity on Mycroft, forgetting for a second how embarrassing it was that they were being set up by Sherlock. “Just me, Mycroft,” he said, rising from the book so he could be seen.

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft said, flicking his gaze around.

“Might as well drop your coat and stuff, Sherlock’s left us a little message,” Greg said.

He realised he was still wearing his coat, so stood to remove it, hanging it over the back of the booth. Mycroft walked towards him, looking as cautious as a wild animal approaching a ready but suspicious source of food.

“Here,” Greg said. “Angelo can we have another glass of wine? And the food as soon as it’s ready.”

“Of course,” Angelo replied, bustling off.

“If you want to get out of here, we can,” Greg said. “Watch the video, and if you want out, just put it down and leave and we’ll never talk about this again.”

Mycroft nodded, his face the kind of calm Greg associated with quiet but well concealed alarm. He fiddled with his wine glass, taking a sip but conscious he really needed to eat before drinking too much. He tried to block out the sound of Sherlock’s voice, looking around the restaurant to offer Mycroft as much privacy as he could while he was watching his brother’s message.

He couldn’t help but notice when the deep rumble stopped and Mycroft laid down the tablet. When the wine glass rose and fell Greg glanced over, checking for a reaction. Mycroft appeared to be thinking. He was still here, which was a good start, though it was also reasonable to assume he was just hungry.

“If you want to eat then go, we can pretend this never happened,” Greg said, looking over to the kitchen to avoid Mycroft’s eyes. “I’m starving, dunno what…”

He trailed off, fingers relaxing from where they’d been playing with the base of his wine glass. Mycroft’s fingertips had barely landed on his knuckles, but the touch sent a shiver up his arm. Swallowing, Greg raised his eyes to meet Mycroft’s.

“Forgive my presumption to ask,” Mycroft said, his fingertips continuing to burn hot on Greg’s skin, “but you stayed because…”

“I had no idea who was coming, I’m hungry, and my flat is cold,” Greg said honestly.

Mycroft nodded. “And now?” he asked.

“And now what?” Greg asked.

“And now that…I am here,” Mycroft said, the uncharacteristic hesitation in the middle of a sentence sending a red flag up in Greg’s mind, “and I am staying…”

“Why _are_ you staying?” Greg shot back.

Mycroft considered the question. “We can continue to dance around this, as my brother insinuated we have been doing, or we can address his accusations like adults, come to a consensus and move on with our lives.”

Greg nodded, his heart suddenly a deep thudding bass in his ears. If Mycroft was going to call his bluff, there was only one thing for it. He raised his wine glass to his lips and drained it, breathing deeply as the mid-range wine burned a little going down.

“In that case,” he said, noting Mycroft’s raised eyebrow, “your brother’s right. I’ve fancied you since we met but I’m too much of a coward to do anything about it. If it were up to me we’d eat here, drink enough to take the awkward edge off without compromising consent laws and snog each other senseless in the back of one of your fancy cars.”

Mycroft’s mouth had dropped open, and he snapped his jaw shut. Greg wondered if he’d overplayed his hand until Mycroft whispered, “And then?”

Greg opened his mouth to answer as Angelo returned. Mycroft’s eyes burned hot, the extended wait for an answer agonising for both men as Angelo fussed around them. He said something, placing a dish of lasagne and a dish of spaghetti alfredo on the table. Two seconds later he returned with the wine, topping off their glasses and leaving the bottle on the table.

Greg made sure he was gone before leaning in and allowing his voice to drop. “You’d make sure we both had a couple of days’ personal leave and we’d see how many ways we could make each other moan.”

Mycroft swallowed, and Greg studied his expression, fascinated that a single mildly dirty suggestion could have such a reaction.

“I would have no problem with that suggestion,” Mycroft replied.

Greg’s eyebrows rose, but he raised his wine glass. “To suggestions,” he murmured.

“Before we continue, and given the…explicit nature of your suggestion,” Mycroft said, “might I clarify a point?”

“Of course,” Greg said. He wondered if Mycroft was planning on discussing sexual preferences right here. Surely there would be a better moment than right now? It wouldn’t surprise him if Sherlock had bugged the place and Greg wasn’t keen on someone with such poor control over his mouth knowing how he felt about bottoming.

“Is your suggestion intended to be a short term, physical arrangement?” Mycroft asked. “I am amenable to such an agreement, I would simply prefer the details to be clear.”

Greg blinked. “I hadn’t thought further than your bed,” he said. “But in the interests of transparency, I am as interested in getting to know you personally as I am physically.” He studied Mycroft, who had schooled his expression into polite interest again. “If it was up to you, what would you want?”

Mycroft took so long to answer Greg wondered if he was planning to avoid the question all together.

“Everything,” Mycroft replied quietly. “Should you prefer a physical arrangement I would be content and would push no further, but it would be dishonest – considering the frank nature of this conversation – for me not to disclose how deeply I desire a more personal relationship with you.”

Greg could feel his jaw loosen at Mycroft’s words. “Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Yeah, that’s…that’s what I want too.”

Mycroft nodded, his torso rising and falling with the deep breath he drew and released. “Very well,” he said. “In that case we should eat.”

“We should,” Greg replied. “I’m guessing you’ll have some suggestions for later tonight?”

Mycroft nodded, his cheeks flushed pink. “As will you.”

“Bet your arse,” Greg replied with a wink. He grinned. “Weird as it is to start a blind date like this, I reckon it was good to get all that out of the way.”

Mycroft nodded. “And now we know where we stand.”

Greg grinned, twirling some spaghetti around his fork. “We certainly do.”


End file.
